The Holmes Sister
by Flammablepie
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft's younger sister shows up at Baker Street and ends up staying in 221C. Adventures await! A story that shows their relationships with each other and a few minor misadventures.
1. Sister, Dear Sister

Ah, I just couldn't resist writing about a younger sister! She's in her very early twenties, still studying (Such a giant age gap, I know!)

Hope you enjoy! :D

* * *

It was another quiet day at the Baker Street residence — Sherlock was getting fidgety and John was in his armchair typing away at his laptop, writing up their most recent adventure. It was not even midday and Sherlock had already set the kitchen on fire. Twice. After John had confiscated his blow torch saying that he'd only return it if Sherlock behaved, he resorted to rocking back and forth on the sofa and whining.

"John. I can't take it. My brain. My mind. It's rotting. Give me something. _Anything,_"

"Check the newspaper, I'm sure there's something. How about that murder in Kensington?"

"The butler, it was the butler," he snapped.

"Wha —"

John was cut off by the _ding _of Sherlock's mobile phone. The pyjama clad man's eyes skimmed over the text before giving a _very_ small smirk. He jumped up suddenly and started pacing the living room vigorously while muttering some things under his breath.

"What is it, Sherlock? Is it Lestrade?"

"Milk, John! We need milk! And some tea as well!"

"What? Why?" He asked confused while Sherlock made his way to his armchair and pulled him to his feet, "What? Sherlock what are you—?"

John was shoved his jacket and some money and pushed out the door before he could finish his question. With a frustrated huff, he took off for the store, hoping that he wouldn't come back to burnt down ruins of what used to be his apartment on Baker Street.

* * *

As John trudged up the stairs, he heard a faint giggle that without at doubt came from a woman. And it was certainly _not _Mrs. Hudson. With arms full of shopping he walked through the open door and came upon the sight of a young lady in her early twenties sitting in Sherlock's armchair. The source of her amusement seemed to have come from the iPhone in her hand. She had wavy, raven coloured hair that was in a pony tail that fell down her deep purple, sweater clad shoulder. '_She's rather attractive' _he mentally remarked. He cleared his throat.

"Oh," she looked up, "Hello Dr. John Hamish Watson,"

"Uh —," he peeped into the kitchen to see a calm Sherlock staring into space in front of another experiment, "Sherlock?"

"Oh, don't bother him, he's gone into his mind palace," she remarked nonchalantly, "He won't be answering you anytime soon"

"Oh, er, I see"

John went about putting the groceries away, very conscious of the mysterious young woman in his flat at the moment. Was she a client? Did Sherlock even _know _there was a woman in the sitting room? John had come home a few times to nervous clients, confusedly waiting for the eccentric detective to snap out of his mind palace. He was just closing the fridge when dawned on him and he whirled around to face her.

"If this is Mycroft again —,"

She chuckled.

"If it is, you can tell him I am not getting kidnapped again to some unknown place and if he wants to see me or Sherlock, he'd have to come _here_,"

She sighed, "Oh you really are hopeless," She got up and walked up to Sherlock and gave him a gentle shake.

"What? What are you doing?" he asked a bit panicked, hoping she wasn't going to do something unpredictable to his flatmate.

Light returned to Sherlock's eyes and he looked at John, "Oh, good, John. You're back. Just in time"

"Just in time? What for?"

"Mr. Holmes, I've been waiting here for over half an hour. I don't really think that it is '_just in time'_ ," She interjected.

Sherlock gave her a slightly confused look.

"Calling me that again are you?" he said annoyed as he turned to face her.

"Oh come on. Would you prefer '_Sherly' _?" she countered.

"I would prefer it if you called me my _name_"

"Mr. Holmes _is_ your name"

"It's my _surname_. I meant my given name"

"Why? Afraid that people will know you're related to the powerful _Mycroft Holmes_?"

His jaw tightened at the sound of his brother's name and John decided to interrupt them.

"No, what? Who are you? Why are you here?" he shouted at the young woman. The day was getting more and more confusing and frustrating. She broke out into a wide grin and Sherlock gave a low chuckle, both obviously amused at his reaction.

"John," he began, "This is my younger sister"


	2. Peculiar Names

Ah yes, the story behind her name. There isn't one. Perhaps not yet, but the name just came to my mind and I decided to name her that.

* * *

The words echoed in his mind. '_John, this is my younger sister'_

"What —?" He was certainly _very _confused now, "No, y-you never said anything about a _sister_"

"Yes, my darling sister is still studying. The last thing she needs is for the world to know that one of her brother's a consulting detective and another is the British Government"

John looked at her properly for the first time and noted that she looked a bit like a cross between Sherlock and Mycroft. She was not very tall, about 5'1 but she had a good shape and build for her height — not too thin or too large, just an hourglass-shaped-in between. She was dressed in a dark purple sweater with a pair of dark jeans and worn converse, the opposite of the usually immaculately dressed Sherlock. Her dark hair contrasted with her fair skin which only brought out the blue in her eyes more.

"Are you done examining her John?"

He coloured slightly, coughed and offered his hand, "John Watson, but you already know that"

"Bytha Holmes. Sorry, I don't," She avoided his hand while she cleared her throat, "Now that all the niceties are over, care to help me set my things in order brother? I doubt you could do it telepathically from here"

"The human mind knows no bounds. Especially mine"

"Yeah, so does your pride"

To John's surprise, instead of growling or grumbling, Sherlock chuckled. He followed his younger sister down the stairs to the flat in the basement and John trailed after him.

_'Bytha Holmes. Ha. I would have expected no less from a Holmes. They do seem to have an affinity for peculiar names. Mycroft, Sherlock, Bytha' _

221C was dusty and stuffy with boxes piled here and there. Light was streaming in through the thin curtains creating little pale yellow squares on the faded carpet. He followed them into the living room — the same living room where Moriarty left his little 'present' for Sherlock.

"So this is the room you were telling me about," she said, "From what I've read on John's blog, it seemed like you had a lot of fun on that case,"

"Yes that was rather amusing, it's a shame what happened to the people in the flat. Although, I did in fact, solved the case,"

"Sherlock, that's not really the point," she began. John's thoughts of finally having a normal, feeling Holmes in the family was shattered when she continued.

"But oh well, people do tend to die. Next time you have a case, bring me along okay? I've been so awfully bored, I'm glad I moved to London for my Masters — far more exciting. And who better to bring crime to the doorstep than my detective brother?" she smiled.

Bytha went about pulling out some photo frames and setting them out on the mantel. Sherlock picked one up which looked like her and a close friend hugging in a park somewhere and he gave her a questioning look. She shook her head sadly, took it from his hands and stared at it for awhile before setting it back on the mantel. Her mood seemed to have dampened considerably. John mentally noted to ask Sherlock about that. They had finished unpacking all the boxes labelled _'kitchen' _when she thanked them for their help and insisted they go back up to 221B. John took the hint she wanted to be left alone and escorted Sherlock back upstairs despite his protests. In the safety of their flat, Sherlock began to complain.

"John," he said irritated, "She still has many boxes to go, why did you drag me up here?"

"Sherlock, you twat, you can't even tell when your own sister is upset,"

"Upset? She looked perfectly fine to me,"

"Yes, that's because you're an insensitive bastard,"

At that, he gave John a long hard glare.

"The photograph, Sherlock," he said patiently, "What's the story behind it? Why was she so unsettled about it?"

"Kate," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

"Kate, her best friend. She went missing over two years ago,"

"No one's been able to find her?"

"Of course not, John! If not she wouldn't still be missing," he snapped.

This was obviously a sensitive subject to touch upon and John didn't want to press it, although he was _very _curious. Sherlock sighed.

"Mycroft and I haven't been able to do anything about it. And Bytha can't help but feel a little guilty for her disappearance,"

"Why?"

"Because she lead the kidnapper to Kate,"


	3. A Day's Work, An Hour's Play

Just to clarify, her name is pronounced as 'Bye' not "Bee' so like, 'Byetha'

Deductions are difficult, I tried my best here :) And well, you all know what happens when they play Cluedo :D

* * *

"H-how can she be sure?" John asked, stunned by what Sherlock had just revealed.

"Well, beca —"

_Ding._

"Excellent! Come John, Lestrade needs us,"

Sherlock shot up, grabbed his coat from behind the door and trampled down the stairs. With a sigh, John got up and followed after him. Bytha heard them just before they were out the door and she peeked out at them from 221C.

"Where are you off to, Sherlock? Got a case?"

"Hmmm, yes. Some murderer has got Scotland Yard stumped. Not as if _that's _too difficult. They're idiots the lot of them. Care to come along, Bytha? I'd like to if you've improved,"

"I have," she grinned.

* * *

The trio walked into the modern, pristine apartment and were greeted by Lestrade. A few forensic investigators were puttering behind him snapping pictures and collecting evidence. Anderson, to Sherlock's chagrin, was present.

"Well, well, well. Hello _Sherlock_," he spat.

"Shut up, Anderson. Stop infecting the air with your vile breath," Sherlock retorted.

He turned to Bytha.

"Oh and who's this? Have you gotten yourself another dog to trail after you?"

At that, Sherlock snapped, but she beat him to it.

"Anderson yes? I would advise you to _stop_ and _listen _to _me._ Just because you're a miserable wretch with greasy hair and an IQ in the single digits, doesn't mean you can be awful to Mr. Holmes here. I suggest you do in fact, shut up and stay out of our way, unless you want your wife to hear about your affair with a certain co-worker,"

Anderson stared at her blankly before walking away with his cheeks red. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, who's she?"

"She's with me,"

He looked at her suspiciously but reluctantly carried on, seeing no point in arguing with him. He led them into the master bedroom where there was a woman's body on the floor. Sherlock and Bytha's eyes scanned the body taking every single detail in, occasionally going through her pockets to look at things. With a nod from Lestrade, John went to examine the body.

"She's been dead about twelve hours," John began, "Give or take an hour or two,"

"I'll need what you have, Sherlock," Lestrade stated.

Sherlock gave a subtle nod and to Lestrade's and John's surprise, Bytha started speaking.

"In her mid to late thirties. Married happily. She has three children. Works as a teacher at a school not too far from here. Money has been a bit tight recently," she paused.

John and Lestrade looked at her dumbstruck.

"How—" Lestrade started.

"Wedding ring's perfectly polished and on the other hand is a diamond ring which says, _'ten years of pure bliss' _on the inside. Not to mention the texts she's been receiving talking about having a dinner date soon to _'get away from the kids for awhile'_. Her being a teacher wasn't a far leap. Red pen and marker marks on her hands. In her pocket was a crumpled piece of paper with some message scrawled on it, no doubt something she confiscated from one of the students in school. She has a Rolex watch, but it's a rather old model. Her skirt is old as well, and has a bad rip on one side but she sewed it up — quite badly might I add — instead of getting a new one, or getting it sent to a professional tailor. She had money once, but not anymore," she paused to look at Sherlock, "Correct?"

"Close. She has two children, not three, but I can see how you made that mistake. That's not baby food on her shirt; it's some salad sauce,"

"Oh. Yeah, I was wondering about the absence of a baby photo in her wallet when the rest of her kids where there. I just guessed she hadn't had time to print one out,"

"Never guess. It is a shocking habit — destructive to the logical faculty. But yes, you have improved,"

Lestrade just stared. John chuckled under his breath.

"Who _is _she?" he yelled, "Why is there a young woman who is like you and Mycroft? I want a straight answer, Sherlock,"

"Use your brain, Detective, surely it is not all that useless,"

"Sherlock," he growled.

"I think she'd prefer it if she introduced herself, instead of me doing it,"

"Bytha Holmes," she smiled, "Nice to meet you,"

"H-Holmes. As in related-to-sherlock-and-mycroft sort of Holmes?" he squeaked.

She nodded smugly and Sherlock smirked.

"There are _three_ of you?" he gaped.

"Yes, they've been very successful at keeping it a secret. But carrying on,"

"The murderer," Sherlock started, "is about six foot tall, he smokes a very unique Brazilian cigar brand, I'm sure that'll narrow the search down,"

"Right, is that all you have?"

"Hmmm yes. Tell me when you've caught him. Keep me updated," he started to walk out, but said in a low voice, "Keep my sister a secret or perhaps the next time you find yourself in need of a superior mind, I'll be conveniently occupied. Evening,"

Back at Baker Street, Bytha was desperately looking through the cupboards of her brother's kitchen for something, _anything_ edible. She had been greeted by expired pasta, mouldy bread and a jar of severed pinky fingers in formaldehyde — although she was used to finding body parts in strange places, she couldn't help but grimace. In the process of her search she had knocked over a test tube filled with a strange solution which ended up discolouring one of the tiles in the kitchen.

"Apologies brother, I do hope that wasn't important,"

"Hmmm? Oh, no, not at all, but Mrs. Hudson won't be too pleased about that tile though,"

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair absentmindedly plucking at the stings on his violin while John continued writing up his blog on the table. She sighed and got a cloth to wipe up the spillage which in fact, discoloured the cloth as well, so she threw it away.

"How do you boys feel about pasta? Spaghetti more specifically,"

"Oh, are you cooking? Thank you, pasta's fine. How pleasant," John smiled.

"Try not to burn the kitchen down, it's been through enough abuse today," Sherlock drawled.

"_Sherlock. _My cooking isn't _that_ bad,"

"Oh yes? Then what about that affair with the beef stew?"

"Let's not talk about that," she said embarrassed, "I've gotten better,"

"We'll see,"

After dashing down quickly to her flat to get some ingredients, she started cooking. Within the hour there was freshly cooked spaghetti sitting on the table, its tantalizing aroma filling the apartment. John took a plate and silently complimented Bytha on her cooking stating that he _'hadn't had spaghetti like this in a long time'_. Sherlock thanked her for not blowing the flat up and declined the plate she was offering him.

"Have you forgotten sister? I don't eat while I'm working —"

"I know, '_digestion slows me down'_,"

He smirked at her then his expression changed and he suddenly jumped up, pulling is phone out.

"Lestrade, yes, Sherlock here. It was the janitor. No, not _that_ one. The other one. Yes. Case closed, mystery solved," then he hung up.

"Perfect then, now have my plate of spaghetti, Sherlock,"

"I'd rather not chance indigestion," he teased.

"Yeah and you'd also rather not chance me hitting you with a cushion. _Try it,_"

"Really, Sherlock you should. It's rather good," John interjected.

Bytha put some on a plate for him and after sniffing it a few times, he took a mouthful. And another. And another. She was amazed. Getting him to eat was something rare, for him to actually take a few mouthfuls of something _she_ cooked was a miracle.

"John's right. You've improved,"

With small victory smile on her face, she sat down to eat with them. After getting the dishes done she sat in an armchair, eyes scanning the bookshelves.

"So what do you guys do for fun around here?"

"Well, Sherlock's idea of fun is a murder," John meekly said.

"As is mine. But I mean normal people fun,"

"I suppose —"

"Hey! Cluedo!"

And for the rest of the night, their shouting voices could be heard from the flat next door.


	4. Dead Bodies and Cats

I am not fond of cats, I much prefer dogs. Ahhh, Molly is one of my favourite characters :D

For any of you who are interested, the "nice Italian café nearby" is actually a café called _Carluccio's Caffè _near St. Bart's. Its reviews are pretty good so any of you living in London should pop down there and give it a try :D

* * *

One morning about a week after she had moved in, Bytha woke up with a splitting headache. Headaches were quite a rare occurrence for her so she was slightly worried. She hauled herself out of bed and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash over her and soothe her throbbing head.

_Thank god it's still summer break. I don't know what I'd do if I had classes on. Ah, I need to pick up some milk for the boys. They always seem to run out of milk._

She quickly got dressed and was informed by Mrs. Hudson on her way out that Sherlock and John got called away to another case. She stepped out into the London streets taking in a breath, the air already dissipating her headache. She took a short walk down to the nearest Tesco and popped in to get some groceries. On her way back she received a text.

**_From: Sherly_**

**_Hope you are awake. Meet me at 's Hospital. I have something to teach you. And you can meet Molly while you're there._**

**_SH_**

She texted him back.

**_I'm awake, just got out of Tesco — I bought milk :) I'll see you there in about forty minutes. Can't wait to meet Molly! John has told me how mean you can be to her, whether you're conscious of it or not. Try to keep it to a minimum this time, Sherlock. _**

Bytha allowed herself a small grin. Back at Baker Street she quickly put all the groceries away, avoiding as many experiments as possible. She caught a tube to Barbican and from there it wasn't too far a walk to St. Bart's. Just as she was about to go in she caught sight of Sherlock but with John absent.

"Sherlock," she greeted, "No John?"

"He had to run an errand for me. Thank you for getting the milk. This way," he led her inside and they started making their way to Molly's lab.

"So how has the case been going?"

"It's rather simple actually; I just need to confirm my theory. John is doing that for me now,"

"I see, so what are you planning to teach me today?"

"Molly has just gotten a fresh body in; let us see what you can deduce from it,"

"When we meet Molly, am I just another associate or am I your sister?"

"I believe we can trust Molly to keep your existence a secret,"

Molly's ears pricked up when she heard voices and laughing from the corridor just outside her office. _'That sounds like Sherlock... and a woman?'_ She was certainly curious now. She had never seen Sherlock with a woman let alone laughing with one. The doors to her lab swung open and she peeped out of her office just in time to see Sherlock's arm slip from the woman's shoulders and his expression go back to his usual stoic one.

"Molly. How are you this morning?" he greeted with a slight smile

"Uhm, good thanks," she giggled, "you?"

"Fine,"

_'He's never greeted me so... nicely before? I wonder if that's his girlfriend. I mean, he did have his arm around her just now. She's rather pretty. But why would he bring her here?' _ she mused silently.

Bytha offered her hand to Molly, who shook it gently "You must be Molly Hooper. I've heard about you,"

"Oh? From S-Sherlock?" her cheeks flushed with the thought.

"And John,"

"So I suppose you're Sherlock's..." she trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Sister," she beamed.

Bytha really wished she had a camera at that moment — Molly's reaction was priceless. Her jaw slack, eyes wide and eyebrows high up on her forehead. She was speechless. She shut her mouth then opened it then shut it again. Her concerns of Sherlock having a girlfriend were now replaced by awe and confusion.

"S-Sister?" she squeaked.

"Yes, his younger sister. Sherlock and Mycroft don't talk about me a lot do they? We've tried very hard to keep me a secret,"

Molly turned to Sherlock, "I-I hope this isn't some kind of joke, Sherlock,"

"Oh no, I assure you, Molly. She really _is_ my younger sister. Now that the introductions are complete, the body, Molly. Chop chop!"

She flinched when he clapped his hands on the _chop chop_ but quickly led them down to the morgue where she had the body ready. She pulled back the white sheet and looked expectedly at them.

"Okay, Bytha, tell me what you see," Sherlock said.

Her eyes scanned the dead body on the cold metal.

"Male, late 50s, about 5'11?"

"Go on,"

"It looks as if he's been strangled," she peered closer, "By a rope or belt or something of the sort. But... no," she looked up and Sherlock smirked, "There's a _very_ small needle hole in his neck. He injected with something? A poison?"

"Very good,"

"So this man was poisoned? Is this your case?"

"Yes, this _was_ my case. It's solved now, I figured it out," he said smugly.

"So what happened?"

"Let's leave that story for later, shall we go?"

"L-Leaving already?" Molly piped up.

"Actually Sherlock, if you have nothing left for me, I would like to stay here for awhile longer, if it's alright with you Miss Hooper,"

"Oh yes, sure!" she said a bit surprised.

Sherlock gave a curt nod before walking out of the morgue. Bytha turned to Molly and smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry for my brother. I know he can be rather... insensitive sometimes. I believe you're not busy right now; would you like to have lunch with me? I haven't eaten yet and I'd like to have a chat. You'll be back in time for the autopsy you need to perform at two,"

"Sure, but uhm, how did you know I was free? And how did you know I have an autopsy at two?"

"I saw your schedule on the wall of your office," she smiled.

"O-Oh, well, there is this nice Italian café nearby,"

Molly was a bit stunned by all that had happened in the last twenty minutes. She learnt of the existence of another Holmes sibling and was now having lunch with said sibling. She was sipping her water silently when Bytha spoke up.

"Molly, if I may call you that, I'd like to thank you, on behalf of my brother,"

"Well, uhm, it's been a pleasure?" she giggled. This was odd. This was strange. Molly was never a very social person. She had few friends and it had been a while since she had actually talked to a stranger.

They talked over lunch. Bytha learnt of her love of cats, her peculiar choice career as a pathologist and of many of Sherlock's antics. The conversation soon turned to Jim.

"I can't apologize enough to your brother," she mumbled.

"It's alright Molly, you couldn't have known, besides," she gave a lopsided grin, "From what I've heard, you made the criminal mastermind watch Glee,"

"Well, I —" Then she started laughing.

The rest of the meal went pleasantly and by the end of it, Molly was very pleased to say that she had acquired a new friend. In Molly's mind, Bytha was very much like her brother in some ways, but quite the opposite in others. She had her Sherlock and Mycroft's intelligence although not as honed by experience as theirs. She had Sherlock's inquisitive nature and Mycroft's self-control. But she wasn't as curt as they were. She was more compassionate, more gentle. They bid each other goodbye and Molly made her way back to St. Bart's and Bytha back to Baker Street.

She walked up the wooden stairs and turned into the kitchen, wondering if she should prepare dinner for Sherlock and John. With a sigh, she dropped her bag when a man's voice called out to her.

"Hello, Bytha,"

* * *

Cliffhanger? Hohoho :D But just to inform you guys, I have no actual plan for this story and I'm not sure where it'll go so, if you want to see anything specific tell me! :D


	5. Reflections

It's been a while :) School's starting soon so that's a bit distressing. I rewrote this chapter three times with three different scenarios. _I am still not completely happy with it._ Anyway, enjoy! :)

* * *

"Mykee!" She squealed happily.

"It's good to see you are well, Bytha. I apologize for not coming to see you sooner — I've been busy,"

He was seated in Sherlock's chair with his umbrella by his side, idly flipping through a book. Bytha made tea for each of them and sat down cross-legged opposite him in John's chair. She cupped her hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth emanating from the mug. Silence passed between them and Mycroft took a quiet sip. She looked up at him and gave a small smile, "Any interesting information about what's going on in the government?"

"Bytha, you know I'm not at liberty to discuss such affairs,"

"Mykee," she smiled sweetly, "Please?"

He shook his head, "Still trying that pleading tactic? You were very fond of using it when you were younger,"

"Well, it used to work, didn't it?"

He chuckled, "I supposed it did,"

At that very moment, the front door of Baker Street slammed shut and Sherlock bounded up the stairs. His eyes fell upon Mycroft in _his_ chair and he frowned.

"Mycroft," he said darkly.

"Sherlock," Came his curt reply.

The air around them immediately tensed. Sherlock and Mycroft were participating in a death-stare match and Bytha was simply observing them, wondering if she should intervene. They always did this, staring at each other, waiting for the other to back down. The longest record was ten minutes—that was quite a few years ago when Sherlock managed to _procure_ some official documents and refused to give it back to Mycroft. She shook her head at the memory.

_They don't change do they?_

"Boys?" She said sternly.

Their eyes immediately snapped to her.

"Stop being so childish,"

"We're not being childish," Sherlock said stiffly.

"You're trying to stare each other down. _Again._ Sherlock, just sit in another chair,"

He grumpily complied and sat down on the chair by the table.

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Nothing. I simply want to visit my younger sister,"

"Well, this is _my_ house, I —"

Bytha chuckled, "This reminds me of the only time we played pirates. I was the beautiful maiden captured by you, Sherlock, and Mycroft would have to rescue me. You'd put me in the 'prison cell' — your room and fend Mycroft off with his umbrella and refuse to let him in,"

Their eyes visibly softened at the memory. A young teen Sherlock with his oversized pirate hat smacking Mycroft while Bytha—tied to a chair—would squirm and call for Mycroft. Their musings were interrupted by a small explosion from the kitchen —one of Sherlock's experiments and it was now emanating a malodorous stench.

"Sherlock," Mycroft growled, "It's dangerous to leave your experiments on the Bunsen burner,"

He shrugged and went off to the kitchen to deal with the damage. The beaker that contained the solution was now broken glass shards on the floor and bits of the solution was dripping from the ceiling. He was about to cal for Mrs. Hudson when he remembered she was away for a few days visiting a sick friend out of London. With a sigh, he looked for a broom and carefully swept up the broken glass before climbing onto the table to wipe the ceiling free of the icky solution.

"I can't believe it got on the ceiling," Bytha remarked.

"Your pancakes managed to reach the ceiling that one time when you flipped them," he retorted.

She looked down embarrassed, "Hey, I was _seven_. I was trying to cook breakfast for Mummy,"

"Sherlock and I had to scrape the pancakes off the ceiling," Mycroft piped in.

"I'm delighted to know that your cooking has improved in since then,"

Sherlock jumped off the table and pulled his shoes on. He stared at them for a moment before laughing quietly.

"Do you recall the time when we snuck under the dinner table and tied Mycroft's laces together?"

Bytha joined in his laughter while Mycroft glared at them.

"Oh that was rich," she said between giggles, "He got up, stumbled and fell over,"

"And ripped his trousers," Sherlock added.

"Enough," Mycroft whispered exasperatedly at his younger siblings.

Sherlock returned to his seat and they talked quietly among themselves for awhile, reminiscing on their young, halcyon days. Mycroft was now far too busy to pay his siblings much attention except to wave a file in Sherlock's face every once in awhile or to send Bytha gifts and things. He had constant surveillance on them though, always keeping tabs and making sure they stayed out of trouble. Sherlock, of course, was preoccupied with his cases and up to the time where she moved in with him, he had little time to visit her. University life kept Bytha's hands tied; reports, assignments, projects — studying at Cambridge was no easy feat. But moving into Sherlock's flat when she moved to London would allow her to be in closer contact with him and Mycroft than before.

John silently entered the flat and locked the door behind him.

_Voices. Sherlock's, Bytha's and...Mycroft's? _

He walked up the stairs and entered the room. Sherlock was chucking quietly, complimented by Bytha's amused giggles, even Mycroft had a small smile playing on his lips. John was slightly surprised by this scene — Sherlock and Mycroft in perfect harmony. No tension, no animosity, nothing in the slightest.

"John," Mycroft greeted as he was getting up, "Apologies, but I have to leave,"

Bytha gave him questioning look but he stared her down, "Things to do, Mykee?"

"Probably preventing another war from breaking out," Sherlock quipped. Mycroft ignored him.

"Afternoon," with that, Mycroft exited the apartment.

"Sherlock," John began as she sniffed around, "What _is_ that horrid smell?"

"Experiment gone wrong," he drawled, "Not my fault,"

He sighed, "Anything in?"

"Well, no. I'd avoid the fridge if I were you, John — some severed ears in there," Bytha piped in, "But I can _try_ can cook something up if you want,"

"Erm, not to pry or anything, but what were you all laughing about just now? I don't believe I've seen Mycroft like that before,"

Sherlock looked at Bytha then at John.

She cleared her throat and spoke up.

"We were doing what mirrors do, John,"

* * *

_Reflecting. _


	6. Lotus

I did a bit of correction with the previous chapter. Age discrepancies. Although I highly doubt Sherlock would still play pirate as a young teen, I like to think that Bytha (who would have been very young) brought out the more childlike qualities in Sherlock. And of course, Mycroft simply played along to please his younger siblings.

About their ages, it _is_ a bit difficult and there may be a few holes there and there (forgive me, I made her so young), I'm assuming Sherlock is about 31-33 when he meets John (I think Mark said something like how their ages were a few years give or take of the actors' age, in this case, Benedict) Making their age gap nine to eleven years.

I wanted a bit more John-Bytha interaction. And I wanted to show a bit more of her character and who she is.

* * *

"No, that is _not_ possible!" Sherlock thundered while slamming the front door.

"Okay, fine. Fine. _Why_?" John sighed, exasperated with Sherlock dismissing his theories about their new case.

"Because, John, she didn't —"

There it was. Sitting innocent and unassuming on the eleventh step of the stairs. A single black origami lotus.

"Wha—" John, began but Sherlock waved him off.

He picked it up carefully and inspected it. Everything was folded to perfection. No tears or odd creases even the inside corners were flawlessly folded to the centre. The petals of the lotus were slightly curled at the end to make it look more like a flower.

"Isn't that...Isn't that the lotus from The Blind Banker case?"

"Yes, it appears so, John. But I think..." he trailed off as he continued up the stairs.

There were more lotuses by the door to the sitting room, but this time in different colours. Their eyes trailed the room as they entered. Origami lotuses or various colours littered the room, it was almost as if a rainbow had collapsed and shattered into pieces. The hues mixed and mingled and they collected up to a small multicoloured pile on the floor by the coffee table. The vibrant colours juxtaposed the usually subdued colour pallet of Baker Street.

"Bytha?" John called out tentatively, unsure of what exactly what to expect.

"Yeah?" she called out from the kitchen.

The two men looked into the kitchen to find her sitting on the table, her back just barely grazing a large beaker of fingers soaking in acid. There were a stack of papers next to her and she grabbed another sheet, nimble fingers deftly beginning to fold another. More lotuses scattered the floor and the counters, their numbers growing as she tossed another to the side.

Sherlock did a once over of her, analyzing before saying darkly, "What have you done to my apartment,"

It came out more of a threatening statement than a question.

"Bored,"

"So you simply decided to...to," he started quivering slightly in annoyance.

"To what? Fold papers into flowers? Yes, I did," she said smugly.

"At least _she_ doesn't shoot the wall when she's bored," John defended.

"Is there," he asked calming down, "Is there a reason why you picked _this_ particular flower to make?"

She quirked an eyebrow, "You know why,"

Sherlock nodded, understanding, and John simply looked between them as their silent conversation crackled in the air, confused.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment before removing the beaker from behind her and placing it on the counter while muttering something that sounded like _'At least you didn't mess with my experiment'_. He then promptly sank down in his chair, preparing to go into his mind palace but not before tossing a few lotuses that seemed to have made a home of his chair, out of the way. John, seeing that there won't be much talking in the near future, drew up a chair and picked up a square piece of paper.

"Care to teach me?"

"Sure," she beamed, "Just fold it in like that for the four corners, then repeat twice, then flip it over like so, then fold it again, flip the petals up and violà, you're done!"

In her hand lay a red lotus. John admired her work before she tossed it aside.

"Perhaps you should attempt it now,"

John began following her steps, carefully making sure that every corner was folded right to the centre. As he progressed, the paper started getting thicker making it less malleable and he found that it got increasingly difficult to keep the corners in the centre. The last bit, the flipping up of the petals was (as he saw) the most challenging. With a determined sigh, he pulled at the ends of the paper.

_Sssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhkkkkk._

He stared blankly at the blue paper in his palm. The fragile petal ripped. The flower was ruined.

Bytha let out a small giggle, "Good job, John,"

He glared at her.

"Try again,"

After ripping up a few more flowers, he gave up with a frustrated huff. He could really appreciate her handiwork now. He wondered where she learnt the patience to gingerly construct figures and to start again each time there was a minor flaw. Almost as if reading his mind, Bytha spoke up.

"When I was younger," she began softly, "I would make these in class. The teacher was always too slow for me so I entertained myself with origami. I would make butterflies, roses, elephants, flowers," she trailed off slightly.

John nodded for her to continue.

"But lotuses — they were my speciality. I made so many of them that I became something of a lotus aficionado,"

"What made you start?"

"I'm sure you know that between my siblings and I, there is quite a large age gap. As a result, whenever they left for very long periods of time, I became very lonely. I very different from my peers and I had very few friends and no close companions at all for much of my life. Even now too, I suppose,"

He was stunned for a moment. He knew she shared her brothers' intellect and some of their quirks but she seemed much more normal than them. He simply assumed that she was like most girls her age — having lots of friends to go shopping with, one or two ex-boyfriends in the past, the usual. She always seemed to be rather cheerful, jocular and self-assured; it never even crossed his mind that her past could have been just as troubled and lonesome as her brothers.

"Except for Kate," she added quietly, "But I didn't meet her until much later, until I started university,"

Bytha stared off into space for awhile, John waited silently for her to resume her tale.

"During a particularly dreadful time when I was a child, I remembered something I read somewhere. An ancient Japanese legend that promised anyone who folds a thousand paper cranes one wish. I bought some paper and set about my task, only one wish in mind. I did manage to fold a thousand, eventually, and I made my wish. But it wasn't until many, many years later that my wish came true,"

She chuckled softly and cleared her throat.

"The lotus — how it can grow out of muddy water and blossom above the filth, was what drew me to it. What I always wanted," she paused, drawing in a breath, "was to be able to rise above my demons,"

He pondered over her words, over her intimate thoughts that for some reason, she decided to share with him.

"I make them to remind myself that I too, will be able to conquer my nightmares,"

She picked up another piece of paper and started folding. After it was complete she offered it to John.

"To remind you as well," she smiled gently.

And for some reason, to John, that particular lotus was the most beautiful and flawless of all the lotuses he had seen her make.

* * *

I have a whole collection of origami lotuses, made during my school year. My shelve is overflowing with them and they now have a box to call home. Still making them :)


	7. Virtuoso

Callused fingers and sore arms come with practicing.

If you haven't heard the Schindler's List Theme, please do.

The titles of the books I got from some tumblr blog that had a masterlist of all the books in Sherlock, and these were listed as in his bookshelf.

* * *

John tossed in his bed. His sheets were a mess, sticky with his sweat. His quilt felt suffocating on his heavy chest as he took in long, deep breaths, trying to get himself back to sleep. With a defeated sigh, he reached over to his phone on the bedside table. The harsh glare assaulted his tired eyes as he checked the time. Quarter past three. He lay in bed for awhile, eyes open, contemplating if he should go down to get a cup of tea and maybe finish a blog post he left half done. He gradually became aware of the soft music that filled the air and he found himself listening to the melancholy tune that came from a violin. If Sherlock was playing in the living room, it would certainly be much louder and he wondered if Sherlock finally decided to use a mute when playing at odd hours. He got up with a stretch, pulled on his nightgown and made his way down to the living room. The door was open a crack and he could see shadows dancing on the floor. The room was dimly lit and dying embers glowed softly in the fireplace. John pushed the door open and to his surprise, he found Bytha swaying gently by the window as her fingers moved deftly up and down the fingerboard and her bow gliding gracefully across the stings.

He paused for a moment and wondered if that was Sherlock's violin and how on earth she managed to convince him to let her touch it, let alone play it. His eyes drifted to the black violin case by the table and realised that the violin she was playing was certainly _not_ Sherlock's but her own. He continued to watch her, mesmerised by her movements. After a few moments, he decided to make his presence known and cleared his throat.

"Oh, hello John," she said quietly as she turned to face him, "I hope I didn't wake you up,"

"Oh, no, not at all. Can't sleep. You?"

"Just practising,"

"Er, is Sherlock awake?"

She nodded over to the kitchen where he saw Sherlock bent over a microscope inspecting a new specimen. She turned back to her violin and continued playing where she left off. John sank into his chair and enjoyed the music that vibrated the still air of night. He couldn't really place the song; it was something he had heard before. The haunting melody taunting him as he struggled to place its name. A few moments later, Sherlock leaned back from his specimen and got up.

"The theme from Schindler's List," he muttered to John as he passed and walked toward Bytha.

John let out an '_ahhh_' and now could relax comfortably, his mind at ease. He watched as Sherlock raised her arm slightly while getting her to stand a little straighter. He mumbled a few things to her while she played.

"More bow," he said tenderly, "Try shifting here instead of there, it's easier,"

John observed in awe. He had never seen Sherlock be so _brotherly._ Ever since Bytha moved in, Sherlock seemed to have softened a little bit, or at least when he was in the privacy of the apartment. John became aware of how much Sherlock looked like a typical big brother teaching a younger sister something. He was stooping over her, making remarks here and there, eliciting a giggle from her every now and then. He looked so _normal. _Sherlock stopped her again and made another adjustment on her sheet music. John could hear nothing wrong; in fact he thought she played wonderfully. But he was certain to a trained ear such as Sherlock's her playing must be riddled with mistakes for him to stop her so frequently. She lowered her arm a few moments later and started massaging it and he wondered just how long she had been playing. She placed her violin and bow on the table and went to sit down in Sherlock's armchair.

"Your bow needs to be re-haired," Sherlock remarked as he pulled up a chair.

"I know, I've been putting it off,"

"It's impeding you to play to your full potential. Do it tomorrow,"

"How long," John cut in, "How long have you been playing?"

"Not nearly as long as Sherlock. About eight years. I played piano up until the time I took up the violin. I still play, every once in a while,"

"Does Mycroft play anything?"

"He does enjoy playing with peoples' emotions and thoughts," Sherlock quipped.

"_Sherlock_," Bytha berated, "Mycroft plays the piano as well. In fact, when I was about to take up an instrument, they argued about which one I should pick. Mycroft, being as efficient as ever, started me on piano classes a week later —much to Sherlock's chagrin—without consulting me. I learnt up to a reasonable standard then I decided to give the violin a try,"

"And I'm sure you've decided that the violin is far more superior to the piano,"

"They both have their charms, Sherlock,"

"Well," John yawned, "I'm feeling rather sleepy now; I think I'll head to bed,"

He got up and both Sherlock and Bytha wished him goodnight. Sherlock waved her out of his chair and she was forced to shift to John's.

"You know Sherly, I rather like him,"

He hummed in response.

"He's a good influence on you I suppose. In certain ways,"

"He's my," Sherlock hesitated for a moment, "my friend,"

"And Mycroft and I are your family. But somehow we're all rather lonesome aren't we? Even John. But sometimes I think we're not as alone as we feel we are,"

Sherlock sighed and stood up, signalling the end of their brief conversation. He showed little emotion; however, her words resonated in his mind and offered him a little bit of comfort. As he passed her he bent down and did something he had not done since she was five. He gave the top of her head a small peck.

"You should sleep as well," he muttered before padding off to his room.

She sat for a while longer, stewing in her thoughts as she ran her thumb over the calluses on her fingertips. She looked up at Sherlock's bookshelves and a particular book caught her eye.

_Drug Addiction and its Treatment._

The memories of an addicted Sherlock came flooding back to her. Of him dishevelled and emaciated. She shook those thoughts away.

_Sherlock is clean now. He's fine._ She reassured herself.

Another book caught her eye and she walked over to it and pulled it down from the shelf.

_Diary of Jack the Ripper._

She curled up in John's chair and started reading it. The night went on and soon her eyelids grew heavier. Just as the sun was rising, the book fell out of her hands and onto the floor with a soft _thunk_ as she gave in to sleep.


	8. The Past (Part 1)

This is a two-part story (arc? thing?) showing bits of her past.

Also, I used to get annoyed at writers for not updating quickly. _But now I understand just how difficult it is. _I apologise.

* * *

Bytha was looking through one of the few boxes that got too lazy to unpack and shoved it in the corner of her living room.

_Why do I have all this rubbish? I might as well toss it all. It just sits here, taking up space and collecting dust. I mean, there's nothing of worth here it's just _

Her eyes fell onto a slightly worn book near the bottom of the box.

_Oh god. It's my yearbook._

She picked it up and flipped through it as all the memories came flooding back to her. The yearbook was for the when she was in year eight. She shook her head slightly as if trying to drive away the unpleasant thoughts but they refused to yield and started creeping up from the deep recesses of her mind.

* * *

Bytha trudged up the large marble staircase of the Holmes' Manor. It had been another awful day at school. First, she had been given the third degree for 'not paying attention' in class and for 'rudely talking back'. She _was _paying attention, doodling was just a way for her to focus her ever racing mind. Then, she had her Edgar Allan Poe book snatched out of her hands by some barbaric boys who decided it would be fun to hide it somewhere. It took her nearly her whole lunch break to look for it and she narrowly escaped another scolding for being tardy. To make matters worse, she overheard some girls warning another one of her classmates away from her again, saying that she was 'weird' and 'not normal'.

On her way to her room, she encountered one of the servants and silently asked her to bring up a tray of tea and chocolate chip cookies and to leave it by her door. In the safety of her room, she let the tears well up in her eyes but she refused to let them fall and she quickly wiped the dreaded things away. Bytha mentally asked and answered her question about mummy's whereabouts. She was up in Scotland with father. She longed for her brothers now but they were both in London. Mycroft was busy with work and Sherlock was god knows where. A small knock on her door told her that her tray was outside and she collected it while muttering a small 'thank you'.

Her uniform felt suffocating — her tie felt like a noose around her neck. She quickly removed her vile clothes, tears burning at her eyes again, and got into the shower. She liked showering in the dark. It gave her time in the quiet to think, to reason and to sort through her emotions. The warm spray immediately loosened the tension in her shoulders and calmed her ragged breathing. By the time she got out and was in her pyjamas, she felt slightly better. The tea had cooled to the perfect temperature and she gingerly poured herself a cup. Dark thoughts slithered through her mind, infecting her already sour mood with more venom.

_Why do they do this to me? So what if I'm different? That doesn't give them any good reason to be so horribly mean. _

She pondered further.

_They must be intimidated by my intelligence and unconventional thoughts and interests. That's what both Sherlock and Mycroft told me when some children were being mean to me when I was in primary school. Perhaps I should dumb myself down a little._

She quickly discarded that thought and declared it stupid.

_There is nothing wrong with me. I'm not crazy. _

Bytha had silently endured this emotional torture for many months, each day worse than the previous and today just about broke her. Tears cascaded down her pale cheeks and she held her head, trying to will the thoughts to just _leave her be. _Words echoed in her mind.

_Don't come near us._

_You freaky genius person._

_You're not normal._

_You're not wanted here. _

_We hate you._

She just wanted them to _stop_. To just disappear. She wanted her mind to just _shut up_ for once. But it wouldn't listen to her. So she did what she said she would never do. She curled up on her bed and sobbed into her duvet. She screamed and kicked and brawled like a little child. But she didn't care. She just wanted to get the poisonous thoughts out of her.

Her energy spent, her eyes producing no more tears and her voice hoarse, she uncurled herself, for her bones and muscles were starting to ache and stared at her ceiling. Glow in the dark stars dotted her ceiling, forming the various constellations that she would see on a regular basis in the night sky. It was not dark enough yet for their light to be seen, but the sight offered her some comfort at the memory it provoked. Mycroft had thought she was a little too old to be doing such things but gladly bought her a few packets of the stars. Sherlock declared knowledge of the cosmos unimportant but he helped her put them up anyway.

Her thoughts drifted to her brothers and she desperately wanted to call them but thought better of it.

_They're probably too busy anyway. It's not their problem to deal with. It's mine. Mycroft did say that he'd visit sometime this week, perhaps that will lift my spirits a little. _

But at that moment, a piece of paper was slipped under her locked door. She ambled over and picked up the flimsy thing. She recognised the writing as the housekeeper's.

**_Miss Bytha,_**

**_A message from Master Mycroft:_**

**_Apologies, dear sister, something has come up. I shall not be visiting for at least the next three weeks. I do hope you see you soon. Send my regards to mummy and father. _**

She crumpled up the piece of paper with an annoyed huff and threw it into the dustbin. She walked over to her bookshelf and pulled down one of the books she borrowed from the Manor library. She ran her fingers over the creased spine and over the gilded words. With a sigh she opened it up and flipped the pages worn by both time and dust.

_Ah, Hamlet. I shall escape my sorrows in your company. But you're not very cheerful either are you?_

She chuckled at herself and began reading, his words beginning soothing her aching soul. Soon the sun started to sink low in the sky, igniting it with orange and pinks before disappearing entirely. That night when she settled into her bed, she closed her eyes and resolved to be stronger tomorrow.


End file.
